Bedlam & Breakfast at a Devon Seaside Guesthouse

by Sharley Scott

  The thought made me want to cry but I managed a weak smile. “I’ll be cleaning then. How about when you get back tomorrow afternoon?”

  As I wandered into the lounge cursing and berating my stupidity, Jason leapt from the sofa to stand by the ironing board. He wore a smug grin.

  “Don’t bother pretending. I know you’ve been watching TV.”

  “I am capable of multi-tasking, darling.”

  “Well, do it then.”

  Instead of biting back at me, he smiled. “No problem. You made it out then? That man must have a blowhole in his head. He doesn’t stop for breath.”

  I slumped onto the sofa and rubbed my face. “He wants to show you this map tomorrow. He’ll grab you after breakfast. I said you’d love to see it.”

  Jason smiled. “Yeah, right! Knowing you, you’ve told him you’d love to see it tomorrow. Why can’t you just walk away?”

  “Like you did?”

  His response was cut off by the phone ringing. When he held up the iron to show he was too busy to answer, I sighed and snatched the phone from the coffee table.

  “Flotsam Guesthouse. How can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to call but I had no choice.” The voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it until he said, “It’s Max.”

  “Is that Max or Alan?”

  He fell silent, leaving me listening to the tinny chatter of people in the background. A café or a shop?

  He sighed. “It’s Alan. I’ll explain later. Look, I’m sorry to ask but I need your help. I’m in hospital and they won’t let me out unless someone picks me up.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Had he really phoned to ask me to call him a taxi? Huffing loudly, I said, “You want a taxi?”

  “I- I know you’re not happy but I need you to pick me up. I’ve hurt my head and they won’t let me leave unless I go back with somebody.”

  He might be in hospital, but the last thing I wanted was to go into Berrinton to rescue a man who’d not only lied to us about his name but also owed us money. The more I thought about it, the more annoyed I became. Apart from the noise in the background, silence filled the line until I said, “Did you tell them we’re not a care home?”

  “I told them you were family.”

  My sarcasm had bypassed him, so I added an extra dose. “That makes me Maureen, I guess.”

  “Well, sort of.” He sighed. “I got mugged by two men and I bashed my head when I hit the pavement. The ward is short of beds and people are queuing for them, but they can’t let me go unless I have someone. I’m well enough to leave, in case you’re wondering. I know it’s a cheek asking but please can you help?”

  Before I could stop myself, I found myself uttering two words I knew I’d soon regret. “Which ward?”

  Chapter 22

  As it was rush hour, I took the coastal road to Berrinton Hospital, only to be frustrated by everyone else having the same idea. While I waited at another set of traffic lights, I consoled myself that at least this route offered sea views. Through a break between the trees and houses white-sailed boats leaned into the sparkling sea below, while a ferry cut across them as it made its final journey back to Torringham. On a hot day like this, it would be crammed with a full cargo of tourists, all heading back to the B&Bs and caravan parks. Further out, a trawler seemed to float lazily in the bay, but the arms – What was the word for them? That’s it, derricks! – jutting out from the sides told me it would be moving through the water. Work done, another trawler chugged past, heading back to the fish quay to unload its haul.

  The queue ahead moved, so I eased the car forward to find my view blocked by a line of houses. I sighed. Jason had been right to say I was crazy doing this. I gripped the steering wheel, imagining it was Alan’s neck. I dreaded the journey back. What on earth would we say to each other? The jingle for the traffic news filtered into the car and I turned up the volume. Great! All roads into Berrinton jammed, this one by a removal lorry and, worse, there was an accident on the bypass. I bit my lip. Should I turn back? Not only did I face a long journey to Berrinton, but it didn’t look much better on the other side of the road either. Knowing my luck, this meant a crawl back and more time stuck with Alan. I groaned. I longed to do a U-turn but, no matter how much I wavered, I couldn’t. I’d promised to help him and I wouldn’t back out.

  An hour later and after finally finding a parking space at the hospital, I stepped from the air-conditioned car into the warmth of a sunny late afternoon. Or was six o’clock classed as early evening? Ahead stood a tower block surrounded by squat buildings, typical of hospital developments in the sixties. I followed the signs to reception and then headed towards Ward D, as instructed by Alan.

  A stone or nail must have embedded into the sole of one of my trainers as every other step clipped on the tiled floor, echoing down the corridor. Rather than pull off my trainer, I settled for tiptoeing on one foot, while walking normally with the other. If it looked like I limped, who cared? This was a hospital.

  The distant sound of clanging pots masked my footsteps. Towards the end of the corridor, a smell like school dinners seeped from the wards. I hoped Alan wouldn’t be eating when I arrived. I wanted a quick get-away. Ahead hung a sign pointing to ‘Ward D’ so I headed to the nurses’ station, where I asked a nurse how to find Alan Manningtree. He ran his finger down a list and pointed down the corridor.

  “Second door on the right.”

  I thanked him and set off on my half-walk, half-limp to Alan, my stomach churning. How would I greet him? While I didn’t feel like being friendly, I couldn’t be rude. He was a guest, albeit a lying one.

  Open double doors led into a six-bed ward. As I headed inside, a nurse stopped me.

  “I’m here for Alan Manningtree.”

  “You must be his sister. He’s waiting in the patient lounge. Follow me.”

  Sister? What on earth was he playing at? If they made me sign anything, no way would I be joining in his lies and becoming Maureen. More than ever I wished I’d turned the car around. The nurse reached a door. She shouldered it open and stood with the heel of her shoe against the door, watching us. I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth, preparing for the meeting.

  Alan didn’t get up from where he sat on a low chair, a large square of white fabric taped to his forehead. He seemed shrivelled and sunken, no longer the man who’d arrived at the guesthouse a few days before. Brown stains splashed his yellow shirt – dried blood, I guessed – and a graze marked his bruised chin. My anger died. I couldn’t think what to say – ‘you look terrible’, ‘are you’re okay?’, ‘what happened to you?’ – nothing seemed to fit.

  “Your sister’s here. Have you got everything?”

  The edge of Alan’s mouth twitched. “Thanks for coming, love. I do appreciate it.”

  Grunting, he heaved himself to his feet and stooped to pick up a Burtons carrier bag. I felt guilty for standing there, clutching my hands together, especially when a real sister would jump to his aid, so I offered him my arm. He shook his head.

  “No need, love. They bashed my head, not my legs.”

  The knees of his chino trousers were scuffed grey and a stain marked his crotch, as if he’d wet himself. I hoped it was beer or something. When I’d last seen him at breakfast, he’d been wearing the same yellow shirt he wore now, but he’d matched it with beige shorts. Now he wore chinos. Had he come back to the guesthouse when we’d been out? Not that it mattered but it was strange he hadn’t picked up his sunglasses or moved anything in his room.

  Thankfully, the nurse let us leave the hospital without asking my name as I wouldn’t have known whether to say Katie or Maureen. With Alan’s top speed not much more than your average zimmer-frame user it took a while to reach the car, where I stood patiently by the door while he folded himself into the passenger seat. When he put the carrier bag down in the foot well, I glimpsed something beige. As I got into the drivers’ seat and clipped my seatbelt, my eyes strayed again to the bag. What was in i
t? I had no idea why it bugged me so much, but I had to know. While he fussed with his seatbelt, unable to find the slot, I pulled his carrier bag open.

  “Your shorts?”

  He nodded. “They insist on long trousers at the casino.”

  The casino? I didn’t know there was one in Berrinton.

  “Where’s that?”

  “The back of Albert Heights. It’s in the old Hamilton Hotel.”

  I tried to place the location but failed. My knowledge of Berrinton was limited to the harbour, esplanade and the shopping area. I regularly got lost in the one-way system and ended up heading out of town. My lack of direction had proved useful once, when I’d stumbled upon a large M&S store tucked behind a row of furniture and carpet outlets and next to Sainsburys, although I’d need a sat nav to find it again without Jason’s help. Luckily, Berrinton Hospital was well signposted or Alan may have faced an even longer wait.

  “How did you end up getting hurt?”

  “I had a bit of a win. Someone must have been watching me.” Wincing, he rubbed his forehead. “They were big lads too. Took me down before I could get a look at them and stole my wallet. The police have been checking CCTV in the area, so I hope they get caught.”

  “I hope so too,” I muttered.

  We fell into silence. In contrast to Torringham with its colourful cottages rising in layers around the twisting streets above the quaint harbour, the seafront at Berrinton offered a mix of modern buildings interspersed with large Georgian and Victorian hotels. Tourists strolled along the promenade, while others ambled through the large park opposite. Berrinton, with its casino, nightclubs, bars and amusement arcades, seemed to suit Alan more than Torringham. Why had he stayed with us, especially when he’d had to use a false name to do so. Tiredness and hunger brought out the bluntness in me. Shona would have been proud.

  “So why call yourself Max when you booked?”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see him turn away to look out of the passenger window.

  I couldn’t stop myself. “It’s just an odd thing to do.”

  “I just wanted to see Maureen’s old place again. I loved coming down when she lived there. She’s just been back with her grandkids and said they had a lovely week. It made me want to relive happy times.”

  Not wishing to get side-tracked, I decided against asking him about Maureen and Jim’s brief visit to Flotsam Guesthouse with their grandchildren. “But when you booked you paid up-front. Why not have been honest and added the one-night you owed us?”

  He looked down at his lap, picking at a fingernail, leaving me dangling. I didn’t want to badger him, but I needed to know. I let the question hang between us. The tension grew until I felt one of us would surely surrender: me by asking again or him by giving an answer. He couldn’t play with that nail for ever.

  He cleared his throat. “I wanted to pay upfront as I’d won on a horse. It was just enough to cover the nights here, so I couldn’t add any more.”

  “Let me guess. When you cancelled the time before, it was because you lost on a horse.”

  “The dogs. Promised a sure bet which turned out to have three legs.”

  I shook my head. Unbelievable. He’d gone through all the hassle of pretending to be Max for the sake of fifty odd pounds. Not much when you consider our loss had been more like two hundred if you took the whole booking into account. But the burning anger I’d felt before didn’t materialise. Now I felt sorry for this man who’d wanted to come back to his sister’s old place, who drank too much, gambled every penny and no doubt had more issues going on in his life than I dared to imagine. Strange that he’d lied about going to hospital when he’d cancelled that first booking, yet he’d ended up at one.

  “I’ll forget the cancellation fee.”

  “I didn’t use my room last night, so you’re in arrears with me.”

  Very funny. “Your clothes did.”

  “I didn’t have breakfast either.”

  “Don’t I know it! We had to wait until the end of breakfast to find out you weren’t coming down.”

  “I’m a bit short at the moment.”

  His comment threw me. It didn’t sound like he was joking any more. Surely, he didn’t really think my offer to forget the money he owed us meant we were also going to refund him for the night he’d spent in hospital? I decided to keep my response light-hearted.

  “It’s a good thing I’m giving you a lift then. Saves you a taxi fare.”

  To end the conversation, I turned on the radio, using the steering wheel paddle to rachet up the volume to a level where he couldn’t speak without shouting. From the look on Alan’s face he didn’t like Coldplay as much as I did but I kept my eyes glued to the road, leaving him to squirm beside me.

  We passed the ‘Welcome to Torringham’ sign, surrounded by huge planters filled with bedding plants. Rounding a corner, we sped beneath a tunnel of trees before we glimpsed the first house in Torringham, the Old Toll House, with its wonderful sign giving historic toll costs. From this point, the countryside changed to townscape. Interspersed between the houses were the B&Bs, easy to spot with the signs hanging by the roadside and vibrant hanging baskets decorating their frontages. Even after Shona’s party, I still knew most of the owners by the name of their property: Seaglade, Torringham Lodge, Arundel and so on, except for Raymond at Waves B&B who would remain infamous for his wandering hands. I’d got chatting with a few of the others as they passed Flotsam on their way to town. It would be good to get to know them better when business quietened down, perhaps at Jetsam Cottage as Shona had been threatening to have a barbeque. If she didn’t, come winter we would hold a small drinks party. But, for now, it was all work.

  Beside me, Alan waved to a couple walking up the street. He jabbed his finger in their direction and, over the din of a dog food advert, shouted, “Marge and Barry from…” He clicked his fingers. “Arndale or something. Friends of Maureen’s.”

  I nodded. Of course, many of the B&Bers would be their friends. Although, the few I’d met at Shona’s last party hadn’t mentioned them. Did people still believe Jim and Maureen’s stories about us forcing them to sell the guesthouse for a pittance or had it become old news? I gave Alan a sideways glance. Had he fallen for the tale of woe too? Or did he recognise the amount of work needed to put the place right? I didn’t dare ask, especially as talk of money could lead back to him trying to wangle a discount on his stay.

  I pulled up outside Flotsam Guesthouse. When Alan didn’t budge from his seat, I hauled his carrier bag from beneath his legs and handed it to him. I jabbed the volume down.

  “You need to get out, unless you want a long walk. I’ve got to park round the back.”

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  “To make sure I get in safely?” I laughed. “I’ll be fine. If you need anything, Jason’s indoors. Just ring the bell.”

  Hesitantly, he pulled the door handle. Whatever he wanted to say, he didn’t want to say it to Jason. As he stepped onto the pavement, I gave him a cheery wave.

  “See you at breakfast. Make sure you get some rest.”

  As Alan trudged off, Peter and June stepped from the guesthouse. In my rear mirror I could see a line of cars. Unable to make a speedy getaway, I groaned as Peter tapped on the passenger window. What with rushing out to collect Alan, I hadn’t had a cup of tea or a moment to myself. With a sigh, I wound the window down.

  “We’ve put some booklets on the side for you,” he said. “We’re not doing much, so I can show you them now, if you like.”

  “I’m sorry.” I gave him my best impression of an apologetic smile. “But I’m going out tonight. I just stopped to drop Alan off. How about we look at them tomorrow?”

  Chapter 23

  After parking the car on Moreton Hill, I took my regular route down a set of steep steps to the back of Flotsam Guesthouse. On reaching the bottom, I groaned. I’d left my mobile phone in the glovebox. My legs ached as I made my way back up. No matter how many times I ran
up and down the guesthouse stairs, I could never get used to these steps. Found throughout Torringham, they offered a shortcut between roads on different levels, and ranged in gradient from steep to almost vertical. The only way to avoid them was to take the circuitous route cars had to take along the narrow lanes and around hairpin bends where, invariably, there would be the constant jams and manoeuvring as cars reversed or squeezed into the tiniest of gaps to allow each other to pass.

  As I climbed down, holding tightly to the handrail, I gazed at our little-used rear gate. If by some miracle it was open, I could sneak into the guesthouse unseen by Peter and have a comfortable evening on the sofa rather than another history lesson. I tugged at the latch but the gate didn’t budge. What did I expect? We kept it bolted top and bottom to prevent intruders getting in.

  With my mind set on an escape from Peter, I called Jason’s mobile but he didn’t answer. Sighing, I propped myself against the wall to think. If I used the front door, Peter would spot me and know I’d lied about going out. Then I’d have to listen to him talking about Napoleon Bonaparte or Operation Tiger, both interesting subjects but not when the lecturer was Peter and definitely not at eight o’clock, with my empty stomach growling like a ravenous bear. There could be double trouble too. What if Alan had decided to wait for me? The look on his face when he got out of the car suggested he had unfinished business.

  Like ours, Shona and Kim’s rear gate was set into a stone wall too high to climb. I tried their door. Locked. In desperation, I called Shona’s number.

  She answered before it rang, “Hello.”

  “It’s me. Can you let me in your back gate? Jason isn’t answering.”

  “Can’t you…” She trailed off. “Won’t be a sec.”

  A few minutes later I heard footsteps and the grind of the bolt as she prised it open. Puzzled, she ushered me into the small patio garden.

  “Are you okay?” She swiped her hand through her blonde-tipped hair. Her eyes were rimmed red with exhaustion and the last dregs of colour had leeched from her usually pale skin.